


The Personal Companion

by Citation



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fawnlock, M/M, Sort Of, bogus science to explain Sherlock's condition, but Sherlock never treats John as his slave, but without woods or magic, sherlock is a detective, sort of sexual slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-07 01:50:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12830781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Citation/pseuds/Citation
Summary: Life and people have never been kind to Sherlock, as his looks made him an outcast from the day he was born. When the Crown gives him a reward for a job well done, he isn’t happy with the idea of being saddled with a man who hasn’t the right to say no to him. It will be up to his Personal Companion John Watson to change his mind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written in response to a friend’s request, who had liked a similar themed story I wrote in another fandom. As she is also fond of Fawnlock, I added a bit of that too in this story...with a twist. This is a realistic (well, as much as possible, given how Sherlock looks) story, with no woods or idyllic setting. Sherlock is a consulting detective, lives in London and so will his Personal Companion, John.
> 
> This story assumes that you have seen “A Study In Pink” and “The Great Game” and that most of scenes happened as seen on screen.
> 
> A Big Thank You to Yukonruby for the betareading! Ruby, I lost contact with you...I hope nothing bad happened. Please email me if you can.

The usually silent corridors and halls of the Diogenes Club resounded with the echo of Sherlock Holmes’ steps, as his leather shoes hit the marble pavement in quick succession.

The people on his way quickly moved aside to let him pass without even thinking of stopping him, even if the man’s behaviour was not appropriate for the club. They all knew how scathing his tongue could be, and nobody wanted to be at the receiving end of his deductions. Nor to be in the path of his long, pointed and dangerous looking horns.

Besides, Mycroft Holmes was the most generous patron of the club, and his financial support was more than worth his younger brother’s lack of manners.

As for Sherlock himself, he was completely blind to the people staring and whispering behind his back. He was too busy trying to regain control over the fury that had assaulted him the moment he had read the now crumpled letter he held in his right hand.

Finally reaching his destination, Sherlock stormed inside his brother’s office without bothering to knock.

Mycroft looked up from the documents he was checking, showing no surprise at the sight of his flustered sibling and his unorthodox entry.

"Undo this, Mycroft," Sherlock commanded, slamming the crumpled letter on the desk.

Mycroft took it, smoothed it and scanned it quickly. Then he handed it back to his brother. "I'm afraid I can do nothing about this, brother mine.”

“You can’t?!” Sherlock almost snarled, leaning forward on the desk. “This has your fat fingerprints all over it.”

Mycroft leant back on his chair and folded his hands in his lap as he calmly stared at his enraged brother. “It was this or a Knighthood, Sherlock. But as you know, we can’t let the public know the Mayfair Ripper was a distant member of the Royal Family, nor we couldn’t let the press wonder why you were awarded with such honour. So the Crown thought this would be a more appropriate reward.”

“Reward? You call this a reward?” Sherlock glared at the letter with disgust.

Mycroft looked at him with a small smile. “You’ve been lonely since...you know. Don’t deny it.”

Sherlock nodded curtly, resolutely squashing the pain in his heart. “Yes. I miss her company—but that doesn’t mean I should replace her with a... sex slave!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Don’t be melodramatic, Sherlock. Personal Companions are more than ‘sex slaves’, as you called them. They can be everything their masters want them to be.”

Sherlock bristled as his hands gripped the edge of the desk so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Do you think this will make me feel better? To have someone near, not by choice but because he isn’t free to choose? To see the horror on his face every day? Or maybe his pity…’look at the poor man, unable to find someone willing to share his bed so they had to give me to him’…Yes, what a great prospect.” Sherlock’s ears were flattened against his skull and he had lowered his head, as a ram ready to charge, against his brother as he instinctively did when he was angry.

Mycroft sighed, “Calm down, Sherlock. Your Personal Companion knows what you look like and was given the choice to refuse the assignation. He accepted and I can assure you because I was there: there was no coercion.”

Sherlock raised his head and looked at his brother, "Are you sure?”

Mycroft nodded solemnly, “Very.”

Sherlock stared down at his hands, as he consciously relaxed the grip of his fingers, “And you’re also sure I can’t refuse?”

“No. It would be a terrible offence to the Crown and there may come the day you’ll need Its support. Besides, you know what happens to Personal Companions when they are refused…"

Sherlock felt a lump in his throat. He knew indeed. The system who had supported them so far, giving them a life of leisure while they were trained and waited for permanent assignation, would discard them as punishment. Unused to life alone, without a true occupation and conditioned from infancy to obey, they were often the prey of people without scruples. A lot of them ended up in brothels, where they would spend their life until they were too old or too damaged to be useful, and were cast off and left outside to die.

"But it wouldn't be his fault…" he tried to reason.

"It wouldn't matter in the eyes of the Royal Harem Committee. It still would be a rejection and punished as such."

Sherlock fell silent, as he contemplated the situation, although he knew he really had no choice. He had suffered too much in the past at the hands and tongues of heartless people to consign a poor, innocent man to a life of abuse.

"So," he finally said, looking down at the document still on his brother’s desk, "When I will meet this John Watson?”

“Tomorrow. He’ll be here at 10.00AM. Try to be on time.”

“I’ll do my best,” Sherlock retorted, wanting to get the last word before he left the office.

**-:-:-:-:-**

 

Mycroft Holmes watched as his brother stalked away, then placed a phone call to the Royal Harem to arrange for the delivery of Sherlock’s Personal Companion.

He wasn’t entirely at ease as he talked of a human being as if he was a parcel, but he ruthlessly squashed his discomfort. He was doing this for Sherlock, for his happiness and comfort, which were paramount for him. Besides, Mycroft knew his brother and was sure John Watson would be treated well.

Phone call ended, Mycroft closed his eyes, remembering the first time he had been informed of the existence of the Royal Harem, one of Britain’s most guarded secrets.

It was created when one of the first UK ambassadors to Japan returned from his assignment believing his country needed an institution like the Japanese Geishas.

Of course the man got it very wrong, because he conveniently forgot that one) Geishas were free women who choose to undertake that training; two) Geishas didn’t offer sexual favours to their clients, while the Personal Companion were chosen from among the existing slave populace and sex was definitely among the things required from them. In the beginning they were only black females, but soon males and individuals of other races began to be recruited, even if it was kept very hush-hush in order not to scandalize the public opinion.

The Royal Harem became such a fixture that it remained in existence even after slavery was banished in 1833, although the number of Personal Companions trained each year had considerably decreased. Nowadays Personal Companions were no longer slaves, but people under the Crown’s or their master’s tutelage, unable to make decisions on their own, perennial children in the eyes of the law.

Mycroft had never thought he would ever have to deal with the Royal Harem, and when Lady Smallwood and Sir Erwin had suggested a Personal Companion as reward for Sherlock he had thought it to be a barbaric idea. However, after he had time to think and a chance to examine the possible candidates, he had begun to think, why not? Perhaps a Personal Companion was exactly what his brother needed.

Sherlock’s life had never been easy. From the moment he was born the world had been his enemy, because people do not easily accept those who are different-- and Sherlock was very different.

Not only he was almost as smart as Mycroft – and that alone would have been enough to set him apart from the rest of the population, as he knew very well – but he also had physical characteristics that made it impossible for him to blend in.

When their parents had married, they were both known to be the children of two couples who had met while working at Baskerville Research Base during WWII. What they hadn’t known was that their parents had unknowingly been object of strange experiments during the years spent in the facility, experiments led by an unscrupulous doctor named Frankland, a pioneer in DNA studies and genetic manipulations. As result both Mycroft and Sherlock had got a double dose of modified genes. Mycroft had turned out perfectly normal, physically speaking, but Sherlock…Mycroft had been never able to understand what Frankland had tried to obtain when he had mixed human DNA with Alpine Ibex genes, but the results of such experiments were visible in Sherlock.

From the front, his brother looked human, but for his long, Ibex-like ears – which he always tried to hide beneath his curly hair – and his curved horns. They were shorter and less thick than a male Ibex’s, but still impressive and impossible to disguise.

On his back, Sherlock was covered by a short-haired brownish fur, perfectly mimicking an Ibex coat. This fur stretched from his neck down his back, to the back of his knees; on his arms, it stretched to his elbows. He also sported a short tail, always hidden by his custom-made trousers and blazers.

From the moment Sherlock had been able to understand – which meant very early in his life – he had known he was different and that people were scared or disgusted by him. He had also known what it meant to be a lab-rat, as scientists at Baskerville had probed, poked, examined, tested him as they had tried – and failed – to find a way to reverse the damage caused by Frankland’s experiments.

Their parents and Mycroft himself had tried hard not to make Sherlock feel like an outcast, but it was impossible to shield him from other people’s malice.

Yet, despite all the odds stacked against him, despite the drugs he had used to dull the pain and silence the rest of world during his twenties, Sherlock had grown up to be an exceptional gifted man, and to build a good life for himself. He had graduated with laude in Chemistry at Cambridge and then used his interest in criminal investigation and his skills at deduction to became a consultant for Met police.

His successes with NSY had attracted him more and more private clients, and nowadays Sherlock was more than able to support himself without any need to draw money from the trust fund their grandparents set up for him after his birth, when no one had even know if Sherlock possessed the brain of a human or that of an animal.

His brother was determined, ruthless and skilled, and the capture of the Mayfair Ripper, the serial killer who had bloodied London for years at periodic intervals had just been the latest of his successes.

The only chink in Sherlock’s armour was his desire for companionship. He wasn’t like Mycroft, happy to live alone, away from the goldfish he had to deal with on daily basis. Sherlock, despite his disdain for idiots and social conventions, wanted someone to share his life with, someone to return home to.

Janine Hawkins, a journalist he had met during one of his early cases, had been able to look past Sherlock’s looks and caustic tongue to see the man he really was and they had bonded almost at once. Janine had helped Sherlock to establish himself as a consulting detective by blogging about his cases. They had been very close, being seen out together a lot, and then they had become lovers. Mycroft had never seen his brother as happy and settled...but it hadn’t lasted.

Sherlock had been miserable since Janine had left him, and this was why Mycroft hoped that the Personal Companion he had carefully chosen for his brother would give him the companionship Sherlock needed and maybe, if they were lucky, even the love he desired.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

The car was moving slowly along London congested traffic as John Watson stared unseeingly out of the window.

He was lost in musing as he travelled toward the new chapter of his life, his final, permanent assignment as Personal Companion.

John remembered only fragments of his life before he had been recruited by the Royal Harem. He rationally knew he had to have a father and a mother, but he didn’t remember their faces. His first clear memory as a child was of the Residence crèche, where he had grown up playing with other children.

He had stayed at the Residence – an isolated manor house in Sussex countryside - where he had schooled and trained as Personal Companion until he reached his 18th year. Then he had been sent to the Royal Harem building and set to work.

John had been close up and personal with many of Britain’s leaders and other influential personalities. He had always been liked by his assignments, because what he didn’t have in looks he made up in charm. Along the years he had served several temporary masters, but two stood out. One was a Doctor Stanford, an authority in cancer research, a kind elderly man John had been assigned to for five years. Stanford had treated John more as a son than as lover. Best of all when he had discovered the younger man had a keen interest and aptitude for medicine, he had enrolled John in university and paid for his medical studies. John had been devastated when he died, killed by the same disease Stanford had tried so hard to defeat.

The other one was his latest assignment, Major Sholto. Like Stanford, he had been interested in more than having John just as bed mate. They had been together for one year, until Sholto had been forced to leave the army in disgrace and John had been recalled to the Royal Harem.

John had lost almost all hope of getting a permanent master. He had been examined by potential masters several times, but no one had chosen him. He had been resigned to spend the rest of his working life being moved from a temporary master to another, until his retirement at age 65, when he would return to the Residence to spend there the rest of his life.

And then one morning, something had happened. He had been summoned to Supervisor Ashton’s office, and he had gone, fully expecting to receive the details of his next assignment.

Instead he had entered the room to find an unknown man sitting behind Ashton’s desk, while the Supervisor stood in a corner, looking pale and frightened. John had briefly wondered if Ashton was about to lose his job.

_The stranger – a tall man in his mid-forty, with a prominent nose, receding auburn hair, keen blue eyes and dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit – looked at him and motioned to the chair in front of the desk._

_“Good morning, Mr. Watson,” he said when he was seated._

_“Good morning, sir,” he replied._

_The man opened a folder on the desk and continued, “I’ve been looking at your curriculum. It says you’re a medical doctor and a good marksman. Is that true?” He looked at John with a penetrating gaze that screamed ‘Do not dare to tell me a lie’._

_“Yes, sir, it is.”_

_“How did you acquire such skills? They aren’t part of Personal Companions’ standard training.”_

_“Indeed, sir. I was sent to university by one of my temporary masters, who thought I had an aptitude for medical studies. As for my proficiency with firearms, my most recent temporary master was a Major stationed in Afghanistan. As we were in dangerous territory, he thought I should have the means to defend myself in case of enemy attack and so had one of his sergeants teach me how to shoot.” John answered, inwardly wondering if this man, whomever he was, was considering choosing him as his Personal Companion._

_“Interesting. And tell me, would you be willing to use your skills to protect your master’s life?”_

_John took a moment to formulate his answer, which he wanted to be sincere but not offensive._

_Then he spoke, firm and determined, “If my master was in a life threatening situation and if there was no other way to save them, yes, I would use my skills. But only if my master was on the right side of the law; I’d never back them in a criminal enterprise, nor I would shoot to people for other reasons other than my master’s or mine own defence. I’m a doctor, I vowed to save lives.”_

_“Impressive,” the stranger commented with a small smile, before changing topic. “Have you ever dealt with a person in overdose? Would you know what to do in such an emergency?”_

_“Yes, sir. It was part of my training as intern at Bart’s hospital A &E.” John described exactly what he would do should he found himself confronted with a patient in overdose and the stranger nodded again._

_“You’re doing very well, Mr. Watson. But I still have a question for you, the most important of all. Would you be willing to become this man’s Personal Companion?” The stranger took a large photo from his briefcase and added, “Please be aware this is a voluntary assignment. Should you decline there won’t be any consequence for you. It’s important for you to be willing, because your potential master is very keen and would notice at once if you’re there against your will. So don’t lie to me. Is that clear?”_

_“Yes, sir.” John was even more confused by what had been going on, because that wasn’t the usual procedure. Personal Companions were always chosen by their potential permanent masters, but now it looked like he was being chosen by this stranger on behalf of a third party. It was really strange._

_The photo was pushed across the desk and John picked it up. His mouth opened in wonder when he saw the serious face looking back at him._

_Pale, unblemished skin. Dark, curly hair. Features that while not being classically beautiful were extremely attractive. Lovely, almond shaped eyes. John focused on them...he couldn’t say if they pale blue, green or grey, he only knew they were the most amazing eyes he had ever seen._

_“He’s beautiful, sir...” he whispered._

_The stranger arched an eyebrow. “Really? Have you taken a good look at his ears? At his horns? They are real, not a disguise.”_

_John nodded. “Of course I noticed them, sir. I’m not blind. I also realized they have to be real, otherwise you wouldn’t have showed me such a picture. However, all what I can say is that they suit him. I guess my reaction isn’t the one people usually have upon seeing him, and I guess his looks are the reason I can decline to become his Personal Companion, but the fact is I find him...beautiful. Beautiful and unique. I’d be honoured to have him as my permanent master.”_

_“Even after seeing this?”_

_John was given another photo of the same man, this time a full figure shot of him wearing only a pair of boxers. It showed that his back, the back of his arms down to the elbow and the back his legs down to his knees were covered by what looked like fur and that he also had a fluffy tail peeking from a strategic hole in his boxers. John stared at the photo and thought it was because he was a bit kinky, or maybe because this body belonged to the man with the beautiful eyes, but fact was he felt his fingers twitch with the desire to stroke that fur a feel if it was soft as it looked._

_“My answer is still yes, sir,” he answered handing back the photo._

_The man smiled, satisfied but also relieved, or so John thought. “Thank you, John. The interview is over.”_

_He stood up and John did the same. They shook hands and then the stranger turned toward Ashton._

_“I want him. Prepare the documentation and wait for my call,” he ordered before walking out of the room twirling his umbrella_.

That had happened five days ago and now John was being driven to meet his new, permanent master, the man he would spend the rest of his life with.

The idea of having been gifted to the strange but unique man of the photos filled him with both concern and expectation. On one hand, there was the concern about what kind of person his master was. On the other hand, having a master would mean from now on he would have to serve and please only one person, because a Personal Companion was just what the name implied—personal. Companions were personal gifts and laws prevented the receivers from renting them out for cash or things like that.

It meant that if he was really lucky, his master would turn out to be someone he could like, respect, and come to care for. It also meant he could end up in the hands of a bastard, and should that happen, suicide would be his only way out.

John dearly hoped Sherlock Holmes’ character would turn to be as beautiful as his eyes.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

On 10.00 AM, Sherlock slammed open the door of his brother’s office and exclaimed, “Where is he?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and muttered, “Manners, Sherlock.” Then he pressed a button beneath his desk. A minute later Anthea – or whatever was her name – introduced a man inside the office.

His brother smiled at the newcomer and said, “Sherlock, allow me to introduce John Watson, your Personal Companion.”

Sherlock stared at the man standing in front of him with duffel bag in his hand. He was short, with sandy-blond hair, blue eyes and an ordinary look about him and his clothes. There was nothing in him that screamed ‘Personal Companion’, and he was grateful for that.

Most importantly Sherlock liked the way John Watson was looking back at him, with curiosity and respect, but without fear, disgust or pity. He bore his silent examination as stoic as a soldier on parade ground.

And speaking of soldiers... “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked, point blank.

“Sorry, Master, I don’t understand,” Watson asked.

“Don’t call me master. Which was it, in Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you...? Oh, you saw it in my file.”

“Nope, I haven’t read it. I just saw.”

“How?”

“In the same way I see you think your ordinary looks is the reason you haven’t been chosen until now, and try to compensate to your lacking as best as you can-”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft said in warning but he ignored his brother and went on.

“-that your latest temporary master was a military commander stationed in Afghanistan who demanded the same discipline from you, and what somehow you also studied medicine and are a doctor.”

“I think it’s enough, Sherlock,” Mycroft ordered. “Try not to offend Mr. Watson.”

Watson turned to look at his brother and replied, “I’m not offended, sir. Everything Master said is right.”

Sherlock threw a smug grin at his brother as if to say “See?”, then he focused again on John – because from now on he would be John in his mind. “Call him Mycroft, he already has enough minions calling him sir.”

John looked at him with a slight smile and nodded.

“Good,” Sherlock clapped his hands. “I think we can continue without a chaperone, brother dear. John, come with me, we need to go home. I forgot a mould culture on the kitchen table and I must dash to prevent Mrs. Hudson from throwing it away!”

 

**-:-:-:-:-**

 

During cab ride toward his new home, John observed his Master, studying his features at his leisure as the other man’s long, nimble fingers danced over his mobile, sending out a string of texts.

In the bright light of the day his horns looked impressive, almost majestic. They were about thirty-five  centimetres long, with a slight backward curve. They sat atop his head in such a natural way it seemed like it been created to bear them, like they weren’t an unwelcome addition, but something every human should have.

His ears were interesting too: although partially hidden by his Master’s curly hair, they were covered in soft looking fur and rotated as they followed noises.

Finally, the eyes John had so admired in the photo had turned to be even more beautiful, because they changed colour according to the light or, perhaps, their owner’s moods.

After a few minutes, his Master put away the phone and turned to look at him.

“I suppose you’ve questions. Ask them now, so we’ll save time.”

John mentally added a deep baritone voice to the characteristics he admired in the other man. Then he turned on the seat to face him better and asked, “How could you say those things about me if you hadn’t read my file?”

His Master looked at him, surprised. “That’s the first thing you want to know? Interesting.” A brief pause, then he started talking again, so fast John had a bit of trouble following. “I didn't know, I saw. The way you held your body and tilted your head was carefully chosen to make you look taller and show your features at your best. As you’re in your early forties, it wasn’t a difficult leap to deduce you believe your short height and ordinary features are the reason you weren’t chosen as a Personal Companion previously. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. As we talked you unconsciously assumed a parade at rest stance, suggesting you had to deal with someone accustomed to military discipline who wanted it from you too. I also noticed a callus on your left index finger and a slight burn, both compatible with the use of firearms. My conclusion was you just spent a period abroad, in a hot climate with a military man who taught you to use firearms. I immediately thought of Afghanistan or Iraq. Finally, there is a rolled magazine peaking for your duffel bag; it's a bulletin available only to doctors and it bears your name and address, so you’re a medical doctor too.”

Silence fell in the cab, as John digested what he had just head. Then he exclaimed awed, “That... was amazing.”

The other man arched his eyebrow, clearly surprised. “Do you think so?”

“Of course it was,” John replied with a nod. “It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary.”

“That's not what people normally say,” his Master commented, looking out of the window.

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off freak or _vade retro Satana_ , depending if they are religious or not,” his Master’s lips bent in a grin and John found himself grinning back, even if his heart constricted upon hearing how the other man was treated.

John hesitated for a moment then asked, “May I be so bold to ask about your...condition?” he tried to be as delicate as possible.

His Master shrugged. “I was born like this; the result of a crazy experiment a nutcase scientist ran on my four grandparents without their knowledge.”

“Oh. So your parents are like you?”

“Nope. They are like my dear brother Mycroft: normal. I was the only one affected by this.” His Master looked again out of the window and John felt the desire to reassure him, to say him he was beautiful, but he had the feeling the man wouldn’t appreciate it.

In the end they reached their destination, which proved to be a Victorian house in Baker Street. It was a prime spot and John wondered what was his Master’s job. It had to be an important one, because Personal Companions were gifted only to people who had done something significant for Britain.

His Master opened the door and John followed him in a narrow hall, from which departed a staircase.

“I live upstairs,” the other man explained as he started climbing the stairs with John following him.

They reached the first floor and entered a large living room. John looked around with interest. What he saw was a chaotic blend of old and new pieces of furniture with books and papers scattered on every available surface and chemistry equipment on the kitchen table—which made him wonder again about the man’s profession. There was also a real human skull on the mantelpiece, a bunch of envelopes stabbed with a pocketknife and a violin case on an armchair.

It wasn’t the tidiest place John had ever seen, and he was ready to bet Major Sholto would have had a fit upon seeing the state of the kitchen, but it was warm and cosy. John liked it at once.

“The bathroom is in that corridor and your bedroom is upstairs. Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, changed the sheets and cleaned it yesterday,” his Master said gesturing with his elegant hands. Then he walked straight to the middle of the room and said, “Come John, sit down. We need to talk.”

John did as he was told and sitting on an old but comfortable armchair. He watched concerned as the other man paced in the room, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“I won’t mince words, John. I didn’t want you and I’ve no use for your _talents_. I believe sex is just a messy waste of time, which can be used for something more productive. I accepted you only because I know what usually happens to refused Personal Companions.”

John looked at him with wide eyes but kept his mouth shut, because he didn’t know what to say. The prospect of not having to sexually serve his mMster was unsettling. All his temporary masters had wanted to have sex with him, even Stanford and Sholto. John felt confident when he was in bed, he knew he had skills and the ability to know what his partner wanted before he was asked.

He stayed silent, and his master went on.

“Now that this is clear, and since you’re as stuck with me as I’m with you, I believe we can make it work. We can be flat mates and who knows, maybe one day we could also be friends. But first, you need to learn some ground rules.”

“Yes, Master,” John finally got back his voice.

“Don’t touch my experiments. Don’t throw away anything before asking to me if you can—unless of course it is your stuff, then you can do what you want with it. Don’t eat anything in the fridge that isn’t clearly labelled as edible. Don’t disturb me when I’m thinking. Don’t move the things in this room; this isn’t chaos. This is an organized order only I understand. Also, I mostly eat take-away. If you like to cook or want to eat something specific, here is one of my cards. There is a Tesco around the corner. And, for God’s sake, don’t call me master.”

John bit his lower lip. “How should I address you, sir?”

“Not master and not sir; just Sherlock.”

“As you wish, Sherlock,” John replied, tasting the strange name on his lips.

“Good.” Sherlock sat on the leather armchair in front of him and looked at him. “You look shocked,” he commented. “Also worried...oh, I see. You’re concerned about not having anything to do and having to be celibate.” Sherlock scrunched his nose. “Well, you don’t need to worry. You can come and go from this flat and look for a job. I think Mycroft could help you to find a place as a GP. You’ll need to have to pass some exams to qualify for the profession, of course, but it could be done. You’re also free to make friends and spend time with whomever you wish, and have a romantic relationship with a partner of your choice, as long as you keep it discreet—the Royal Harem Committee must not know about it. Just don’t bring your partners here, I don’t like new people in my flat.” Sherlock paused for a moment, then asked. “Is that all right for you John? Do you have any questions?”

John blinked his eyes, trying to muster a reply. He was completely stunned by Sherlock’s speech. The mere idea he could have a romantic relationship with someone that was not his master was totally alien to him.

Finally gathering his wits, he murmured, “May I speak freely, Ma- uhm, Sherlock?”

“Of course. I don’t like formalities and tiptoeing around words. Just speak your mind.”

“All right,” John nodded before continuing in a concerned tone, “Sherlock…I appreciate all the freedom you’re willing to give me and all the effort you’re making to make my life good but…what about you? Is there really _nothing_ you want from me? I’m a Personal Companion, and I want to care for you, to make you happy. It’s my duty and my desire.”

Sherlock shook his head. “That’s your training talking, John. You have been indoctrinated to put your master’s needs and desires above your own, but it’s no longer necessary, not with me. As I said, I’ve no need or desire for a Personal Companion.”

“Do you already have a partner?” John asked, hating how small his voice sounded.

“No, I don’t. Who do you think would want me with these looks?” Sherlock said with a sarcastic tone, but pain flashed in his eyes.

“Then why Master?” John forgot he wasn’t supposed to use that title, “I can’t understand why you can want me to be only a flatmate when I could be so much more for you! Every temporary master I had in the past jumped at the idea to have a Personal Companion, even if only for a while. Why aren’t you?”

Sherlock sighed deeply and crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t approve of exploitation—and I don’t like the idea of forcing my will on someone who has no choice but to obey me.”

John nodded, then decided to make a last attempt at being accepted as more than a person Sherlock was reluctantly going to share rooms with. He leant forward and put a hand on the other man’s knee.

“Master, please, let me show you how good I can make you feel…I want to do this, you wouldn’t be forcing me to do anything.”

Sherlock sighed again – an action John was coming to hate – and said, his voice patient as if he was explaining something to a slow-learning student. “This is your training talking, John. You’ve been brainwashed since childhood to think you want to serve your master. You’re not _choosing_ to do something, because for you, there is only one possible choice. There has never been another—at least until now. With time, you will learn to choose what is good for you, not for your master.”

“But-” John tried to protest again, but Sherlock stopped him with a gesture of his hand.

“I don’t like to repeat myself. This is how the situation is—and it won’t change. And now, would you please let go of my knee? I have to check my mould culture.”

John retracted his hand and watched dazed as the other man stood up and walked to the kitchen, where he disappeared after he closed the glass-like sliding doors.

John closed his eyes and collapsed against the back of the armchair, as he thought about how confusing his life had just turned out to be.

What Sherlock had said was so incredible—almost inconceivable. How could he ever think of putting his personal wishes before those of his master? It went against everything that he had been taught and everything he had ever lived by.

And to be honest, now that he knew what a kind and generous person his Master was, John was even more convinced Sherlock Holmes was a man he could easily love—and he didn’t want to lose the greatest chance at happiness life had given him.

John would make himself useful, learn what Sherlock liked and disliked, discover what the other man looked for in a friend and in a lover…and he would give it to him.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

 

The next morning Sherlock stepped inside the shower stall and switched on the hot water, moaning in appreciation as it fell on his shoulders and neck.

Long, warm showers or baths helped him to relax his back muscles, always a bit strained by the effort of carrying and balancing his horns.

As the water washed over him, Sherlock thought about his day. He doubted Lestrade had relented in his determination of not calling him to consult on some case, and all because of how he had treated a witness during a previous case. But what should had he done? Waited until that woman stopped crying before asking his questions? Lie to her and say it wasn’t her fault if his husband had taken his boss hostage, when it was her continual requests for money that had pushed the man to commit his crime? A life had been at stake and Sherlock had done what was needed. Sooner or later Lestrade would see it...or maybe it would be some puzzling mystery to make him change his mind.

That left him without something to do during the day. Maybe he’ll go to visit Molly to see if she got some nice corpse he could experiment with. Then he needed to introduce John to Mrs. Hudson and hope they wouldn’t band together against him. There was only so much fussing a man could tolerate.

As he soaped his front, Sherlock thought about the previous evening. After completing his experiment, Sherlock had hesitated before leaving kitchen, concerned John would try again to convince him to make use of his _talents_ as soon as he stepped in the living room.

He had steeled himself for another round of protests and declarations, but, blessedly there had not been any.

When he had walked into the living room the pleasant smell of Chinese food had welcomed him.

John had carefully moved the books and papers on the table to make room for take away boxes.

“Good evening, Ma-Sherlock. I hope I’ve not done anything wrong. I saw it was getting late and I thought it was best if I went to buy something,” John had said with a smile.

Sherlock had smiled as he spotted his favourite foods on the table. So John not only had gone to the Marylebone restaurant he favoured, but had also managed to discover what he usually ordered. He had been pleased for it meant the man was little bit less than an idiot, and was able to care for himself.

He had praised John’s initiative, thinking it would encourage more independency in his Personal Companion.

Sherlock smiled under the spray of water as he thought of John’s delighted expression at his praise, but then frowned slightly as he remembered the man’s next words.

“I’m glad I chose well, Mas-Sherlock. From now on, if you allow me, I’ll take care of all your meals. I’m a good cook, you know? It should be something you’ll be able to appreciate and that will make me useful to you.”

Sherlock’s relaxed mood had thus disappeared, and dinner had started as a rather tense affair. However, by the time they had cleared the table and throw away the boxes, his mood had improved and the rest of the evening had been spent in amicable silence. John had watched a movie while Sherlock had answered to his emails, solving four cases, deleting fan mail, and resolutely turning down a request from a Japanese doctor to examine him for the book he was writing.

The experience had given Sherlock hope that he and John could live together in an amicable way. He was a reserved man and liked to be left in peace, but it seemed like John knew when to keep his mouth shut. Sherlock felt confident that he and the other man would be able not only to live together, but to also become friends. Of course it would take time, for he had no illusion he could change John’s mindset with a few well-intended words. The older man had been trained since infancy to behave in a certain way and it would take time for him to understand what freedom of choice really meant.

The steam left the shower stall as the door was opened, interrupting his musings. Sherlock made to turn around but two hands posed on his shoulders, stopping him.

“Let me wash your back, Sherlock,” John murmured behind him.

Sherlock wanted to protest, to tell John to leave, but refrained. As he had just had pondered, it would take time to make John realize he didn’t have to serve him. Sherlock was willing to compromise, and let the other man help him, as long he limited himself to washing his back.

John soaped Sherlock’s back and hair, massaging his muscles and scalp, the touch efficient, professional, and quite enjoyable.

Sherlock closed his eyes, relaxing under that confident touch, only to snap them open when John’s arms surrounded his waist from behind and his hands paused on his front, one on his belly, the other on his genitals.

Sherlock tensed and reached to turn off the water. “Let me go, John.”

The hands moved away as John took a step back.

Sherlock turned around, slicking his wet hair back as he looked at the anxious man in front of him. Almost without volition, his eyes roamed the other’s body. He had to admit John was handsome, completely devoid of body hair and very proportioned for his height. Had their situation been different and had Sherlock been looking for a partner – which he didn’t as facts had proved sex wasn’t his area – he would just be the kind of man he would go after.

When he raised his eyes, Sherlock noticed John was looking at him with expectation, as if he believed Sherlock’s perusal meant he would now want to have sex with him.

No way.

Steeling his heart and regretting the hurt he was going to inflict, Sherlock walked past John and opened the shower stall. He grabbed his bathrobe and handed a large towel to John. “Cover yourself,” he commanded.

John took the towel and wrapped it around his body, face filled with pain. “Don’t you want me at all? Am I repugnant to you? Did they get it wrong in giving a man to you? Do you want only women?”

Sherlock tied the belt of his bathrobe and shook his head. “Of course you’re not repugnant, and no, they weren’t wrong, I like both males and females. You’re attractive enough and caring, but I don’t want you—or anybody else for the matter.

John looked at him, puzzled, and Sherlock realized he would have to tell the entire, embarrassing truth.

“John, the truth is I’m not interested in sex. I don’t like it, I don’t understand it, I don’t care for it– never have and never will. So please, don’t berate yourself. It’s not your fault, it’s exclusively mine and I’m really sorry for the pain I’m causing you. And now, if you will excuse me, I’ve to go to Bart’s.”

Sherlock watched as John left the room, head bowed and shoulders slumped. A part of him felt the irrational need to go after the other man and tell him everything would be fine. But his more rational self knew it would be only wasted breath or, worse, it might raise John’s hopes again, making him long for something more, something that would never happen, for Sherlock had no desire to disappoint yet another person he cared for, nor did he want to get hurt another time.

Thus Sherlock walked determined to his bedroom and started to get ready for his day, his earlier good mood completely forgotten.

 

**-:-:-:-:-**

 

Sherlock was at Bart’s making use of a deserted lab to examine the brain Molly had given him. It belonged to a man who had been killed by his wife with a knitting needle.

He usually preferred to run his experiments at home, away from curious eyes, but after what had happened in the shower he didn’t want to face John any time soon.

Why had John to do that? Why had he ignored his instructions? Wasn’t his Personal Companion supposed to obey him? And why had he to be so attractive?

Sherlock hadn’t been totally honest with John. Sex did interest him, just not as often and not as much as other people. His sex drive had never been strong, not even as a teenager. It was somehow ironic, because Alpine Ibex males went into rut and the doctors had been afraid he would do the same. Sometimes Sherlock wondered what it could have been like—maybe he would have had the passion his partners said he lacked.  Most times, however, he was just glad he had been spared the indignity of not just looking like a beast, but behaving as one as well.

Sherlock also liked sex...when it went right, which unfortunately hadn’t happened often for him. He liked to be close to his partners, to give them pleasure and then bask in the afterglow. He even liked the inane pillow talk...

Sherlock ground his teeth, wishing he could be more like Mycroft, and live following his brother’s creed; caring was not an advantage. He knew that most people thought him unfeeling and inconsiderate, but it was just a facade, a wall he had built to protect himself from insults, disgust and pity. However, it wasn’t a perfect wall, because kind words could easily crack it. Sherlock wished it wasn’t so. He had learned the hard way people lied and shouldn’t be trusted.

Unbidden his thoughts went to Victor Trevor. Sherlock had met him at Cambridge, when they had been partners in an experiment for their Biology course. Victor had been kind, smart, funny and had treated Sherlock as a normal person, without ever commenting his most obvious characteristics and defending him from insults.

Sherlock, starved for companionship and acceptance, had fallen for him and had agreed to sleep with Victor. It had been just an inexperienced fumble of hands, but he had loved every single minute of it. Until the morning after, when he had woken up alone in Victor’s room. Disappointed but not worried, Sherlock had showered and returned to his room to dress for the day and gather his books, his mind replaying the events of the previous night.

However, as soon as he had walked in the main hall, he had become aware of people snickering, laughing and making lewd comments at him. It hadn’t take long to discover the reason: Victor had taken pictures of him as he was sleeping naked and pinned them on the College main bulletin board, where everyone could see them.

Incredulous, he had confronted Victor and the truth had come out: the other boy had never been interested in him, he had just wanted to win a substantial bet against his best mate Sebastian Wilkes, who had dared him to “bed the freak” and prove it.

How had it hurt to see them laugh and to hear Victor say with disgust, “Do you really believe someone would be willing to sleep with _you_?”

Sherlock’s revenge had come years later, when he had exposed both of them for embezzlement in the bank where they worked, sending them to prison and ruining their names and reputations for good.

After that traumatic experience, Sherlock had vowed to follow Mycroft’s advice, to stop caring about other people and live as he was surrounded by goldfish, but he was different from his brother. Maybe it was the Ibex in him, but he craved companionship. He longed to have...a herd—and along the years he had managed to create one. Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade: they were all members of his small herd. Sherlock looked after them and enjoyed their company.

And then, of course, there had been Irene and Janine, but Sherlock didn’t want to remember them now.

He had an experiment to complete and then he would take Molly out. There was a nearby cafe that served delightful pastries, and his friend deserved a treat for giving him such an interesting specimen to study.

 

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Before John knew it, a whole month elapsed since he had become Sherlock Holmes’ Personal Companion.

For a few days after the embarrassing incident in the shower, things had been strained between them, but gradually Sherlock had relaxed and stopped fearing John would try to seduce him at every turn.

John had obeyed to the other man’s wishes and kept his hands to himself, as he learned how to fit in his Master’s life.

He had thus discovered Sherlock was terribly intelligent, but prone to rapid changes of mood. There had been days spent in absolute silence and others in which Sherlock had talked non-stop, telling John about the experiments he was running and how he had once identified and classified 243 different types of tobacco ashes. It had been in that occasion that John had learned what his master did for a living: he was a private detective—or better, a consulting detective.

_“The only one in the world, John,” Sherlock said with pride, “I invented the job.”_

_“And what does it mean?” he asked._

_“It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me. I also take private clients, but only if their cases are interesting. I’ve no time for missing dogs and cheating spouses.”_

John had also understood why he had been told to be careful with what he ate. He would always remember the day he picked up what he thought was bacon only to discover it was instead slices of human skin.

Mrs. Hudson, the landlady who believed John was an old friend of Sherlock in economic hardship, had seen him pale and had patted his back and comforted him, “You’ll get used to it, dear.”

John had soon become Sherlock’s housekeeper, keeping the flat clean, buying food, doing the laundry, and making sure there was a tea ready when his Master woke up. He was there when Sherlock needed a sounding board and made himself scarce when he needed quiet. John never considered any of these as tasks he had to do; they were all things he wanted to do and so did.

There were also things he would have liked to do, but couldn’t. He hadn’t forgotten the feel of Sherlock’s soft fur under his fingers and he would have loved to get closer to that fascinating man. Because there was no doubt that despite his horns, animal ears and the fur, Sherlock was a man. His Ibex side didn’t influence him, apart from the tendency to lower his head like a ram ready to charge when he was irritated. But Sherlock didn’t want it and John respected his wishes.

All in all John was feeling happy about how his life was shaping up. He had the freedom to come and go at his leisure, to explore London and discover how much it had changed since he latest visit, and Sherlock treated him as a flatmate bordering on friend, with no orders and no commands.

 

**-:-:-:-:-**

 

One evening, while John was doing crosswords and Sherlock was pacing like a caged tiger, something which usually happened when he was bored, Mrs. Hudson stepped in the room with an open newspaper.

“What about these suicides, then, Sherlock?” she asked, “I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same.”

“Yes, it would be just my kind of case, if only Lestrade would stop being so stubborn,” Sherlock said with irritation.

“Who is Lestrade?” John interjected.

“The Met inspector I usually work with. We...uhm...had a disagreement and he is punishing me by not calling me to investigate on this case.” Sherlock’s voice died as he looked out of the window. “Oh, speaking of the devil...There must have been a fourth one. Suicide, I mean. And there's something different this time.”

“A fourth?” Mrs. Hudson commented as John heard someone walk up the stairs. A moment later a man with iron- gray hair came into the room, his breath slightly hurried.

“Where?” Sherlock said in greeting.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

“What's new about this one? What made you cease with your irrational behaviour and come to me?”

“You know how they never leave notes? This one did. Will you come?”

John’s eyes danced from a man to the other, curious to see what will happen next. It seemed to him that Sherlock was trying to make Inspector Lestrade pay for having banished him from crime scenes.

“Not in a police car, I'll be right behind,” Sherlock agreed, as if he was granting a big favour to the other man.

However, as soon as Lestrade left the flat, his Master’s stance completely changed. He grinned broadly and jumped in happiness.

“Brilliant! Yes!” he exclaimed as he whirled around the room in glee. “Four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas. John, I'll be late. Might need some food.”

“All right,” John nodded, fascinated by this side of Sherlock.

“Something cold will do. Don't wait up!”

“Look at him, dashing about,” Mrs. Hudson commented, with a mixture of fondness and reproach. “My husband was just the same.” She patted John’s shoulder, gave him the newspaper and added, “But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell.”

 _Not really,_ John thought. He would have liked to go to the crime scene, to see if real life investigations were similar to those on TV.

John was about to open the newspaper when Sherlock reappeared in the room, dressed in his coat and scarf.

“You're a doctor.”

John nodded with a confused frown. They had ascertained it long ago.

“Any good?”

“I’ve never practised, but I try to keep myself updated.”

“Uhm...what about injuries and violent deaths?”

“I was on the frontlines in Afghanistan for one year. I helped in the camp hospital, so yes, I’ve seen some of them.”

“Then I presume there is no risk you will vomit on a crime scene if you see a corpse.”

John smirked. “No risk at all.”

“In that case, would you like to come with me?” Sherlock asked, but the smug look on his face hinted he already knew the answer.

John was already standing before Sherlock completed the line.

“Oh, God, yes.”

 

**-:-:-:-:-**

 

As soon as they arrived to Lauriston Gardens, John saw the true scope of a real crime scene. Police cars, the coroner van, policemen coming and going and the perimeter surrounded by a yellow tape. Near it there was a dark skinned woman, who could have been pretty but for the sneer on her face.

“Hello, freak!” She said to Sherlock and John froze on his feet as he looked at her outraged. She was a police officer. She shouldn’t talk to people in that way.

However, Sherlock didn’t seem to notice as he raised the tape to step under it. “Come on John.”

He was about to follow Sherlock when the woman stopped him.  “Who's this?”

“Dr. Watson. John, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend,” Sherlock introduced them.

“So you have found someone crazy enough to replace Janine? I wonder how long will he last,” the woman completed with a sneer, before letting him pass and saying in her radio “Freak's here. Bringing him in.”

John looked at her with disgust as they followed her toward the entry of the building. He murmured to Sherlock, “You should have her reported. She is a disgrace to her office.”

Sherlock shrugged, “She has her usefulness. Besides, she is right; I’m a freak.”

“No! You’re a man, kind and funny, and certainly very good at what you do. Personal Companions aren’t easily gifted, so you must have done something pretty amazing to have been rewarded so.” John’s words were passionate and Sherlock looked at him with surprise.

He then cleared his throat and said, “Thank you, John.” Then he grinned in a wicked way and added, “Watch now.”

They had reached the building entry gate and a man wearing a forensic suit was coming out, a frown on his face.

“Ah, Anderson. Here we are again,” Sherlock commented pleasantly.

“Unfortunately. This past month has been such a relief without you around.”

“Oh well, all good things end, sooner or later.” Sherlock shrugged. “And how is your wife? Is she away for long?”

 “Yes, she is away. And now surprise me: how did you know?” Anderson asked, with a mixture of feigned boredom and sarcasm.

“It was your deodorant,” Sherlock answered simply, throwing a quick glance to John, who was following the scene with great interest.

“My deodorant?”

“It's for men.”

“Well, of course it's for men - I'm wearing it,” Anderson retorted.

“So is Sergeant Donovan,” Sherlock said with a grin.

John had to bite his cheek to avoid bursting in laughter as he saw Anderson and Donovan blush and look at everywhere but each other.

“May I go in?” Sherlock asked calmly, as nothing had happened.

Anderson reluctantly moved away to let him pass, but having recovered from his embarrassment he tried to get the upper hand again. “Whatever you're trying to imply...”

“I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.”

This time John couldn’t contain his snicker. This was why Sherlock had said him to watch, because he already knew he would take his revenge against those two arseholes. John couldn’t help but admire his class: he had delivered a killing blow without uttering a single curse or insult.

John was still smiling as they climbed the stairs toward the upper floor, but his merriment disappeared when he saw the body of a dead woman lying on the dusty floor.

He watched as Sherlock examined the body and went to knelt near him when he was asked for a professional opinion. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to say much about how she had died, except that it was some kind of poison—which was something the police and Sherlock already knew.

However, his disappointment was brushed away when Sherlock started rattling off deductions with such a speed he and DI Lestrade had trouble keeping up with his rapid talking. If John had found him amazing when he been the one deduced, now Sherlock was dazzling, incandescent. The amount of information he had gathered from a few, apparently insignificant, details was awesome.

Less awesome was to be left alone in Brixton, while Sherlock disappeared God only knew where.

Far less awesome was to be kidnapped and taken in a deserted warehouse, where a disembodied voice coming from the shadows, a voice belonging to someone able to control CCTV cameras interrogated him.

“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

John frowned, wanting to slap his forehead. Of course this was about Sherlock, who would have interest in kidnapping him?

“He’s my flatmate.”

“Oh...don’t sell yourself short, Mr. Watson. I know you’re his Personal Companion.” There was a rustling noise, as if the talker was checking papers. “You were gifted to him exactly one month and two days ago.”

John tensed. This kind of information wasn’t easy to obtain. This person, a man he guessed, but it couldn’t be sure because the voice was so altered, had to have a mole in the Royal Harem Committee.

“Who are you?”

“An interested party.”

“Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends.”

The voice snorted, “You know him. How many friends do you imagine he has?”

John’s eyes narrowed. “More than you know. I’m just one of them.”

“I see. Then I’ll tell you I’m not among them.”

“You’re an enemy,” John concluded. “You want to use me against him?”

“No. Not exactly. I just want you to know that I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis-”

“-in exchange for what?” John interrupted him. He wasn’t interested in the money, but knowing what the voice wanted him to do would help him to assess how much of a threat this person was to Sherlock.

“Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to.”

“Why?”

“I worry about him. Constantly.”

“That's nice of you...but no.”

“No?  But I haven't mentioned a figure.”

“Don't bother, I’m not interested.”

“Really? You know what you could use that money to buy fake documents and leave Britain to live as a free man in another country?”

“I know and I’m still not interested,” John said with sincerity and determination. “I like living with Sherlock, I think he is a wonderful human being and I’ll never betray his trust.”

The light suddenly came on, blinding him for a moment. When John was finally able to see again he spotted Mycroft Holmes standing in front of him, holding his umbrella.

He looked speechless at Sherlock’s brother as the older man approached him with a rueful smile.

“Sorry for the clock and dagger atmosphere, John, but I needed to be sure,” he said.

“Of what?”

“Of how loyal you’re to Sherlock. As I said before, I worry about him.”

“So this was a test?” John replied with a frown.

“Yes, one you passed with flying colours.” Mr. Holmes motioned with a hand and a woman, the same one John had seen in his office when he had first met Sherlock, came forward carrying a gun and a box of bullets.

“Take them, John,” Mycroft Holmes urged. “Use them wisely. Protect Sherlock.”

John nodded and picked up the gun and the box.

The rage he had felt upon discovering it had all been a rouse to test him transformed in pride and awe. This clearly powerful man was trusting him with the life of his beloved brother. Never before John had been given something so precious.

So he bowed his head and vowed, “I’ll do that, sir. I’ll protect him with my life if necessary.”

Mycroft Holmes smiled again and murmured, “I appreciate it, but I hope it will never be necessary. Now follow me, it’s time to go home. Your phone chirped twice while we were talking and I’m willing to bet it was Sherlock.”

 

**-:-:-:-:-**

 

Later that same night John found himself using that same gun to save Sherlock’s life. Silently thanking Major Sholto and Sergeant Murray for their lessons, he was able to wound the man who was threatening his master, and rend him powerless.

He watched from behind the yellow tape as the man was put on an ambulance and taken away as paramedics and DI Lestrade fussed over Sherlock. He listened with some concern as Sherlock listed what he knew about the shooter and witnessed the very moment his master realized it had been John. He saw his expression change from professional interest to awe.

Immediately after, Sherlock turned toward Lestrade, who had been listening with intent and said, “Actually, do you know what? Ignore me.”

“Sorry?”

“Ignore all of that. It's just the, er... the shock talking.” Sherlock stood up from the ambulance floor where he had been sitting and dropped the blanket the paramedic had put on his shoulders.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“I've still got questions.”

“Oh, what now?! I just caught you a serial killer, and I’m hungry. Can’t this wait till tomorrow?”

“Okay, but I want you in central in the morning. “

Sherlock ignored him and stepped beneath the yellow tape John kept raised for him. They walked away in silence until his master said, “Good shot.”

“Thanks.”

“You need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case.”

“Agreed.”

“Where you did get the gun?”

“Someone who ‘worries about you constantly’ gave it to me,” John said with a smile.

“Oh, my meddlesome brother.”

“He cares about you. He kidnapped me, tested me and then deigned me worthy to be your bodyguard. I was chuffed to death.”

“I don’t need protection,” Sherlock sulked.

“You most certainly do. You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?”

“Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up.”

“No, you didn't.”

Sherlock stopped and turned to stare at him, serious. “I most certainly did. Because I’ve come to know you. Unlike my brother, I didn’t need to test you to know you would come to help me, although I was expecting you to tackle or punch the guy. The shot was a delightful surprise.”

John nodded, feeling his heart flutter at the sheer amount of trust he could hear in Sherlock’s voice. His hope that one day his master might decide to trust him in a more intimate way stirred again.

They looked at each other a moment longer, then Sherlock broke the spell. “Dinner?”

“Oh yes...I’m starving.”

They walked away in an amicable silence, side by side and in sync as if they had been doing this for years.

 

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos!

From the moment he had heard Jefferson Hope say that name, Sherlock had longed to know who Moriarty was, because the idea there was a person who sponsored serial killers had been so intriguing.

And now, seven months later, the time had come.

He and Moriarty would meet at a pool; the same where many years before Carl Powers died...Sherlock’s first case and Moriarty first murder—or so Sherlock thought.

He stepped inside, feeling the comforting weight of John’s gun in his pocket. He had briefly considered taking his friend with him to watch his back, but had rejected the idea. John wouldn’t have approved of such a meeting. He would have insisted on calling the police, but Sherlock didn’t want that. He wanted a meeting between equals. Besides, he didn’t want to put John in danger. He was really fond of the man, who had proved to be a fantastic flatmate, friend, and comrade-in-arms.

Sometimes Sherlock wondered what it would be like to have John as lover and partner too, but thoughts never went too far. He didn’t wish to press John in any way, for he was always aware that while they behaved as equals, ultimately Sherlock had all the power in their relationship. Moreover, the scars left behind by Victor, Irene and Janine were deep and he wasn’t keen on adding more.

The pool was silent and apparently desert. Sherlock took out the memory stick with Bruce Partinson’s missile plans.

“Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present,” he said aloud. “That's what it's all been for, isn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance. All to distract me from this.”

There was a sound of approaching steps but the man who stepped out from a locker was the last one Sherlock had expected to see there. John.

For a few seconds Sherlock considered what a fantastic cover being a Personal Companion would have been for a criminal mastermind as no one would ever think about such a possibility. But then he looked in John’s distressed eyes and realized Moriarty had played him. This wasn’t a meeting between equals. This was an ambush; whose reach became clear when John opened his jacket to show it was strapped with sentex.

A door at the back of the room opened and a well dressed man appeared and it was a familiar face; Jim of IT, Molly’s boyfriend.

The man walked leisurely along the pull edge, “Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?” he commented.

“Both.” Sherlock replied, taking off the gun and aiming at Moriarty. He studied him, but it was clear someone else was holding the sniper rifle aimed at John, ready to make the sentex explode.

Sherlock bantered with Moriarty as he searched for a solution. He had been an idiot to come here alone, now he could see it. Now the only thing he could do was to try to save John and himself...especially John, because he was an innocent victim in the game he had been playing with Moriarty.

Right now, their best option was to make sure Moriarty stayed close to them. The sniper wouldn’t shoot to John for fear of triggering an explosion that would blast their boss too.

So he approached John and the other man and studied his friend. “Are you all right?”

“You can talk, Johnny boy.” Moriarty encouraged him.

John nodded with his head as his eyes asked, ‘ _What we do now_?’

Sherlock took the memory stick from his trouser pocket and held it out to Moriarty, “Take it.”

The criminal took it, and exclaimed. “Boring! I could have got them anywhere.” He turned slightly to throw the memory stick in the water and John took the opportunity to wrap an arm around his neck and use Moriarty as a shield.

“Sherlock, run!” he urged him. But Sherlock couldn’t listen to him; John was his friend and he was part of his herd too.

His Ibex side rose in him, the instinct of the dominant male, his duty to protect the members of his herd from predators. Sherlock lowered his head, aiming his horns at Moriarty’s chest and was about to give a mighty push when he saw a red laser dot on John’s forehead...and another one on his own white shirt.

“Good!” Moriarty said with enthusiasm, “Very good. Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal. But oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Johnny boy.”

John let him go, throwing an upset glance to Sherlock.

Moriarty smoothed his clothes. “Westwood. Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? Do you?”

“Oh, let me guess. I get killed.”

“Kill you? No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, some day. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying, your friends will pay the price. You know, Mrs Hudson, Molly Hooper, Lestrade and John here...Are we clear?”

Sherlock gave a curt nod. Everything to have Moriarty go away and free John.

“Well, I'd better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.”

Moriarty began to walk away and Sherlock moved to keep him under aim.

“Catch you... later,” he said, his hand never wavering.

“No, you won't!” the criminal reached the door he had used to enter and snapped his fingers. The red dots disappeared and Sherlock felt like he could breathe again.

He turned toward John and asked, “All right? Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine,” the other man replied, but Sherlock could see he was shaking. Without wasting time, he knelt to remove the sentex-packed jacket. The position allowed him a better view of the explosive and the zip, and also reduced the risk of accidentally hurting John with his horns.

Once the jacket was loose, Sherlock threw it away from them and then began to pace, trying to dispel his agitation.                                                                                                                                                             

John collapsed to sit against one of the lockers, “Sherlock...are you all right?”

“Me? Yeah, fine. I'm fine. Fine,” he answered still pacing. “That, er... thing that you... that you did, that, um... you offered to do... that was, um... good.” It was far more than good, but he expressing sentiments had never been his forte. He counted on John to understand what it had meant to him that John had been ready to sacrifice himself for Sherlock. Without pressure, without second thoughts...

Sherlock was just beginning to calm down when suddenly the red dots reappeared and there were more than before.

Moriarty stepped back into the pool, “Sorry, boys. I'm so changeable! It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't.”

The playful tone of before had been replaced by a deadly one. Moriarty had played with them as a cat does with the mouse, but now he was going to land the killing blow.

Sherlock looked at John and saw that he too understood they only had a chance. There was only one possible decision they could make.

He motioned to John to stand up and come closer to him just as he aimed at the discarded explosive jacket, lying midway between them and Moriarty.

This wasn’t how he had predicted the encounter would go. He had mistakenly believed Moriarty to be like him, that the criminal enjoyed having a worthy adversary as much as Sherlock did. But he had been wrong. Moriarty only played to win.

And now here they were, under the threat of sniper rifles and with the prospect of an explosion as only possible way out.

Sherlock mentally calculated the distance between them and the pool and thought they could make it. He looked a last time at Moriarty, saw realization dawn on his face – _no short-arse, this isn’t a bluff_ – and pulled the trigger. Then he pushed John with all his strength. He fell down too, covering his friend with his larger body as he pulled and pushed the other man into the pool.

He felt heat scorch his back and the cold water was a relief and not just a protection from the hell raging around them. There were flames and smoke, debris and pieces of broken glass falling and flying all around.

They stayed under water as long as possible, swimming toward the other side of the pool. When they finally resurfaced to breathe, they were out of danger. The building was half destroyed, but the water had protected them.

They climbed out of the pool and sat down, both breathing harshly.

“How are you?” Sherlock asked.

“A bit singed...” John said with a small grin. “Very sore, but otherwise fine. You?”

“Not sure. My back is killing me.”

“Turn around! Let me check you.”

Sherlock did so and felt John’s hand touch his naked back. So his coat, jacket and shirt had been burnt by the blast...

“I can’t feel any bleeding...but I could say more if there was some bloody light. Can you stand?”

Sherlock rose to his feet, painfully but without too much effort. John did the same then put an arm around Sherlock’s waist. Together they walked toward the exit, just as far away sirens heralded the police arrival.

 

**-:-:-:-:-**

 

Sherlock and John had a long talk with Lestrade, giving their statements about what had happened, as Moriarty’s body was recovered from the debris and taken away. Of his six snipers, two were found dead and the other four were just wounded. They were all wanted by the police for other crimes and they were all willing to talk about Moriarty’s activities in exchange of a reduction of sentence.

Sherlock and John were both checked by paramedics, which found only minor bruises and scratches, and then sent home to rest. They didn’t need to be told twice and soon they were on a cab directed to Baker Street, both wrapped in glaring orange shock blankets.

Once home, Sherlock asked John to shower first, for he knew he would need to spend a long time under the water spray.

His back hurt like hell, and not just because of the blast which had burned his clothes and scorched his fur, but also because of all the tension accumulated during the case.

When it was his turn, Sherlock went to the bathroom and discarded his clothes, letting them fall on the floor. He used the mirror above the sink to take a look at his back, noticing that his fur was full of black spots. He idly wondered if that scorched hair would fall out, but it was just a passing thought. He stepped inside the shower stall, set the water to be as hot as he could stand and leant his forehead against the tiled wall.

He tried to push away all thoughts, but instead kept reliving the night events. Kept thinking about how things could have gone, which was irrational, as those events were now in the past and past couldn’t be changed.

Sherlock slammed his hands against the wall in frustration. Instead of relaxing he was getting even more tense and sore, so much he had troubles in keeping his head high.

Cursing under his breath, he switched off the water, dried himself and walked to his bedroom clad just in a towel, hoping that lying down would help.

Sherlock stopped cold when he saw John standing near his bed, which he kept almost in the middle of the room in order to have room for his horns.

John was in his pyjamas and bathrobe and raised both his hands, showing two tubes to Sherlock. “I would like to check your back, Sherlock. This cream should help with the sting of the burns, while this one is a muscle relaxant. If you want, I could give you a massage; it should help you to relax and allow you to sleep more comfortably.”

Sherlock considered it for a moment, then said, “Why not?” He laid on the bed on his stomach, and adjusted the pillows under his head.

John climbed on the mattress and knelt by his side and soon Sherlock felt his hands on his back. A part of him was ecstatic to be touched by the man he longed for, but the other was just too sore to appreciate it.

John first applied the cream to all his burns, then he poured the relaxant in the middle of his shoulders and began to work on them. At first the massage was everything but pleasurable, and Sherlock grunted or moaned every time John pressed or kneaded a muscle. Then gradually, the pain began to disappear and the touch became pleasurable. Sherlock relaxed, and his mind began to wander, thoughts crossing his mind and disappearing before he could examine them in depth. Keeping his eyes open became an ever increasingly hard struggle, until in the end he surrendered and fell asleep.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Testing the waters here: I've a complete Sherlock/Mary story in need of a betareader. I know it isn't a popular pairing, but I loved Mary and this just story wanted to be written. Besides, it is all by Sherlock's POV and he is the main character. So well, I would really appreciate if someone could help me with the betareading. I mostly need someone willing to check the story for grammar mistakes, typos and "Italianisms" (weird sentences).  
> Please let me know if you can help me!  
> Thanks in advance.


	7. Chapter 7

John was frustrated and lonely. Sherlock had just phoned to let him know his return from Berlin had been delayed due to new developments in the case he was following.

Sherlock had spent two whole months travelling abroad at his brother’s request and John had been obliged to stay behind because he couldn’t travel without the appropriate documents. He had literally counted the days till Sherlock’s return and had organized a sort of ‘welcome back’ dinner for tonight, cooking the other man’s favourite dishes.

John sighed as he walked into the kitchen to switch off the oven. There was no reason to keep the onion soup warm, since Sherlock wouldn’t be there to eat it and John had lost all of his appetite.

He also went to Sherlock’s bedroom to put away the fresh pyjamas he had laid out for him and to remake the bed, smoothing the covers he had thrown back.

Once done, John lingered in the room, where he could feel Sherlock’s presence. Unbidden his memory returned to the night he had given a massage to the other man.

It had been after their encounter with Moriarty, the night John had been willing to give his life for Sherlock, not because he was loyal to his master, but because he was in love with the other man.

As John had felt from the first moment he had met his new master, falling in love with Sherlock Holmes had been easy—and how could it have been any different given the sort of man he was?

Smart, funny, caring, he treated John as an equal, never mentioning his status as a Personal Companion, both in public and in private.  

John had fallen for him, hard. And he was frustrated because he didn’t know what to do.  

The night he had given Sherlock his massage, John had been seriously tempted to seduce him. He knew that there were points in the male body that if carefully stimulated would arouse the recipient of the touch.

John had been turned on by the feel of Sherlock’s soft fur and by the sight of his muscles moving beneath it and his hands had itched with the desire to turn Sherlock’s moans of relaxation in moans of desire.

He hadn’t done it. Because Sherlock had told him long ago he didn’t want sex and John’s actions would have betrayed the trust the other man had in him if he took advantage of his discomfort to seduce him.

So John had kept on massaging Sherlock’s back until he had fallen asleep, and the only concession to his feelings had been a kiss to his cheek and a nuzzle against his shampoo-scented soft hair.

Five months had passed since that night, and John’s longing had kept increasing, because he wanted to be more than friends with Sherlock.

After having spent his life having sex with men who had cared little or nothing for him as a person and treated him only as an object or a status-symbol, John wanted to know what making love really meant and felt like.

The door bell rang, distracting John from his thoughts. He ran down the stairs to see who it was as Mrs. Hudson had gone to visit a friend in Wales for a week.

“Molly,” he greeted with a smile when he saw the Bart’s pathologist. “Please come in. What can I do for you?”

“Hello, John. I just came to see if you would like some company and cheering up since Sherlock’s return has been postponed.”  Molly smiled as they started climbing the stairs, “Don’t look so surprised. I know how you feel for Sherlock... anyone that knows you is aware you love him—everyone but Sherlock, that is. Which it is quite funny considering how observant he is about everything else.”

John nodded and once in the living room he led his guest to the couch. They both sat down and after a moment of silence, he decided it was the time to ask a question about a topic that had bothered him since the beginning of his relationship with Sherlock.

“Molly, may I ask you something?”

“Of course,” she smiled.

“You’re Sherlock’s best friend, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am—and you know it very well. We’ve been friends since our twenties, when we shared a flat with two other students at Oxford. I was finishing Uni, while Sherlock was working on his doctorate.”

“Good...” John took a deep breath and plunged in. “Then… then maybe you know why he doesn’t like sex.”

Molly took a sharp intake of breath and shifted on her seat, uneasy.

There was a long moment of silence, during which John thought he had dared too much, but then Molly began to talk, very quietly. “Sherlock never told me ‘why’ he doesn’t like sex. He just told me – he was twenty-two when he did – that he didn’t like it. That he found it distasteful, a chore more than a pleasure. I didn’t prod—he was already so embarrassed – and he didn’t elaborate more. I suppose there is no need for a reason to explain his distaste. I guess he just doesn’t have it in him.”

“But maybe…maybe it is just because he never had sex with someone he loved…” John suggested.

Molly shook her head, sadly. “No, John, he has. He had sex with someone he loved—and it made it even worse.”

“How?” he asked, desperately needing to know what had happened.

“Well, when he was twenty-three, Sherlock fell in love with a girl named Irene Adler, who lived in the flat near ours. They were together for six months, and even if I never liked her, it seemed like she made Sherlock happy. And then, one day Sherlock returned home from a visit to his parents’ house in the countryside and found Irene in bed with another student. The explanation he was given was that she needed ‘variety’ in her sexual life and that Sherlock was as boring as his chemical formulas.

John stared incredulous. The man he knew was anything but boring! Sherlock was unpredictability made human. “That was such a cruel thing to say!” he sputtered, indignant.

“Indeed; as matter of fact I believe she seduced Sherlock only because she was curious about how he would be between the sheets given his physical characteristics. She was always fascinated by his looks...but I don’t think she ever loved or even truly liked Sherlock. Anyway, it took a long time for Sherlock to recover from the heartbreak and from the drugs he used to dull his pain. But in the end he did so and forgot Irene. By that time, we had both moved to London and Sherlock worked for a while for a big chemical firm, but he quit because he found the job boring and began to consult for the police.” Molly paused for a moment before continuing, “Then, when he was thirty, Sherlock met the Bitch…Oh, forgive me John, I meant Janine Hawkings.”

“Janine Hawkings? The TV journalist?” John asked in surprise.

“Yes. She was working for _The Times_ when Sherlock met her and they hit it off from the get go. It wasn’t love at first sight, Sherlock had been hardened by his previous experience, but he was fascinated by her – and she by him – from the start. She, like you, me, Mrs. Hudson and Greg was able to see the man beneath his physical looks. She saw how wonderful his skills as detective were and started a blog about his cases, giving popularity to Sherlock and helping him to build his reputation as problem-solver. In due time, their mutual attraction turned to love and they became a couple. They were together for three years before...” Molly’s voice trailed off as she closed her eyes.

“Before what, Molly?” John urged her, needing to know.

“One day Sherlock came to visit me at Bart’s. He was so excited and nervous he was almost giddy. He showed me a ring he had just purchased; he had decided to ask Janine to marry him. I complimented him for his choice and told him it was about time he proposed. Then I sent him on his way and prepared to make plans for his wedding. I watched him walk away with a spring in his step I had never seen before…only to see him return two hours later, head bowed and shoulders slumped, the jeweller’s box still in his hand. I knew at once his devastation didn’t come from his proposal being refused. I led him to my office to give him privacy and I saw him collapse on the couch, head in his hands as he broke in front of me. It’s something I hope I’ll never see again...” She shivered, as she relived the moment.

“What had happened?” John asked softly.

“It had happened that when Sherlock arrived to Janine’s place with the ring, he found Janine in bed with two whores. In the confrontation that followed, she told him that she wanted passion in bed, and since Sherlock wasn’t able to give it to her, she had decided to find it elsewhere. This happened three, almost four years ago, and since then Sherlock hasn’t shown interest in anyone…until you.”

“Me?!  Sherlock isn’t interested in me in that way, no matter how much I wish he would…” John exclaimed.

Molly smiled weakly. “He doesn’t want to be interested in you in a romantic way, John. He doesn’t want to allow himself to fall in love again…John, Sherlock has loved twice, and both times he ended up being hurt because, apparently, he isn’t able to physically satisfy his lovers. Given these premises and the fact he doesn’t like sex in the first place, do you think he would act on the feelings he has for you? For I know he has feelings for you. I see the way he looks at you; it’s the same mix of love, admiration and devotion he had for Irene and Janine. But he won’t act on his feelings. He probably fears that if you two have sex, he won’t be able to make you happy, thus you’ll end up losing respect for him….and betray him as those women did,” Molly explained.

“But it’s not true! It’s my task to keep him happy and satisfied, not the other way around!” John exclaimed. “I could never betray him! Aside from the fact I love him, I’m his Personal Companion—betraying him would be a crime, punishable with jail.”

Molly all but snorted, “John, you know as well as me that Sherlock doesn’t consider you his Personal Companion. And we both know that if you two end up making love, you wouldn’t consider making him happy a ‘task’. You would do that because you love him, and he would try to do his best to do the same in return. But his fear is that his best won’t be enough.”

John stood up and started pacing, needing to dispel some of the frustration bubbling inside him. “But sex isn’t everything in a relationship! There are more important things!”

Molly nodded, “That’s true. You know it. I know it—but the point is Sherlock doesn’t. His two experiences at love showed him without any doubt that sex, at least for certain persons, is much more important than other things. He learned it the hard way, especially with Janine, so it isn’t surprising he doesn’t wish to get hurt again.”

John sighed as he returned to sit on the couch. “What can I do then?”

“Well, Sherlock needs to learn that for some people, for most people, sex isn’t everything and that he can have a lasting loving relationship even if he isn’t a good lover. You can be the one to show him this, John—but keep in mind this: make your move only if you’re certain of your feelings and your ability to commit to Sherlock in spite of everything. Because,” and Molly’s brown eyes hardened, “Hippocratic oath or not, I swear I’ll kill you if you cause Sherlock’s heart to break another time.”

John stared straight at her eyes and nodded once, as deadly seriously as she was.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock steps were as heavy as his heart as he climbed the seventeen steps to his flat.

He felt irritated at himself, because he had not yet been able to let go of the memories of what had happened that very day, four years ago. The image of Janine in bed with two prostitutes was still so fresh, still able to cause him pain even today, when logically he should have felt only pride in himself and his accomplishments.

After three months of investigation, of chasing leads no one else thought to follow, of examining hours of footages, he had been able to close Interpol number one case and find the long missing Black Pearl of the Borgias. Mycroft had been ecstatic, telling him this time he would get his knighthood.

It had been Sherlock’s greatest international success, and he should be proud of how he had solved the case—instead his mind was once again thinking to that long past day.

Sherlock had always known, since that first experience with Victor Trevor that sex was not his forte. Oh, he liked to pleasure himself all right, but he seemed not to feel the same lust, passion and need to mate his age mates had.

When his affair with Irene had progressed to sexual intercourse, Sherlock had done his best to pleasure her and made her happy, but evidently his best had not been enough for her, and she had looked for more in Godfrey Norton’s arms.

After the failure of that relationship, Sherlock had been set on never falling in love again, but Molly had told him he shouldn’t make such a drastic decision based on only one bad experience. He had never revealed her the bad experiences were two, not one.

In the end Sherlock had been more than happy to let himself to be convinced to try again, after Janine entered in his life and everything in the world seemed to be right.

She was a dream come true, his perfect match. Determined not to disappoint her between the sheets, Sherlock had done searches, watched instructional videos and even spent time with a prostitute in order to get the knowledge of to how please the woman he loved.

Everything had seemed to go well between them, and Janine had never hinted he was doing anything wrong until the day he had rushed to her flat to hand her his heart forever only to have it broken into many tiny pieces.

So taken she had been by her two partners, Janine had not realized at once Sherlock was in the bedroom, and he had had to watch and listen as the two men had pulled from her lips moans and groans and other sounds he had never heard before.

The confrontation that had followed had been nasty and Sherlock had erased most of it, but for the crux of the matter: Janine had hired two prostitutes because she was tired of a passionless lover. She had been tired of Sherlock’s gentle and methodical loving. She had wanted to be ravished, to be conquered, to be dominated and since it was clear Sherlock was not going to do it, she had taken action to get what she wanted.

Sherlock sighed as he stepped inside the darkened living room.

He felt a pang of disappointment that John was not awake to meet him, for he knew his friend’s infectious smile and pleasant personality would have done wonders for his mood. John seemed to always know how to cheer Sherlock up.

He quickly dispelled his upset. It was the middle of the night and John had not known he was going to return; there was no reason the other man should have waited up for him.

Sherlock walked into his bedroom and closed the door. He dropped his duffel bag near the wall and shrugged off his coat, folding it on a chair. Since he had showered that morning in the hotel in Georgia, he just carried out his nightly routine in the bathroom, and returned to his room, slipping between the fresh smelling sheets.

Despite the late hour, Sherlock wasn’t sleepy. He thought about getting up and going to find something to read, but as he shifted in the bed, the silk sleep pants Molly had given him for his last birthday rubbed sensuously over his member, causing it to stir and lengthen.

Sherlock’s eyebrow arched in surprise. He couldn’t have imagined his body would show that kind of interest that very night given what his musings had lingered on, but now that it had happened, he thought, why not? He had not pleasured himself in a few months and despite all his dislike for sex, it was an activity he enjoyed.

He switched on the bedside lamp, threw back the covers, removed his sleep pants and laid nude on the bed. His cock hardened even more as Sherlock slid his hands up and down his chest, pulling at his chest hair and brushing over his nipples.

A spike of pleasure ran along his body and Sherlock closed his eyes, to better enjoy the sensation his hands were causing to his body.

There was no pressure when he was alone with himself, no need to satisfy his partner, no need to speed up things or slow them down according to someone else’s desire. It was just himself, what he was and what he liked.

Sherlock wrapped his hand around his erection and pumped slowly, making sure to apply pressure on the places where he liked it most. He then slid his hand lower and squeezed his balls, pulling them a little. Then he returned to concentrate on his cock again, from base to tip, sometimes pausing to rub the sweet places on the head between his fingers.

It felt good, but something seemed to be amiss… it wasn’t building.

Sherlock began to worry because all the tell-tale signals that usually preceded his orgasm-- warmth spreading through his belly while his balls coiled up—were absent. Worse, the more he insisted with his ministrations to himself, the more he felt that, far from moving toward his goal, he was moving away from it.

 _God!_   Sherlock thought after several more strokes changed nothing, and he was finally forced to admit nothing was going to happen. This was the only sexual practice he enjoyed, and now he was not even able to take it to its natural conclusion!

Perhaps it had not been a good idea to engage in that act that very night; he could almost see how Janine and her prostitutes would laugh at him if they saw him now…

Sherlock let go of his still hard cock and slammed his fist on the mattress as he willed the mocking images out of his mind. He could not stay like that. He had to stand up, cover himself, go to sleep and hope to forget the whole thing.

He was about to move when the bed dipped beneath the weight of another person and two warm hands posed on his hips, effectively stilling him.

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed shocked, staring at his friend’s face. “What are-”

“Shh,” John whispered, before he bent his head and took Sherlock’s cock inside his mouth.

Sherlock groaned aloud when he felt engulfed by that hot, wet cavern and John started a sucking motion. He threw his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes, getting more and more animated as he felt the familiar tightening in his belly and balls.

A final sweep of that talented tongue around the head of his cock and Sherlock could not take it anymore: he arched his back to push himself as far as he could into John’s mouth and came with a loud shout, as white-hot pleasure exploded in him.

 

**-:-:-:-:-**

 

John watched, in the dim light of the bedside lamp as Sherlock slumped against the mattress, body totally limp where, till a few instants before it had been as tense as a bowstring.

The bitter-salty taste of his seed was still sharp in his mouth, similar to that of the many men John had serviced in life, and yet completely different. As unique as Sherlock himself.

John had been awoken a few minutes before with the need to visit the loo. Still half asleep, he had tensed when he had seen the light was up in Sherlock’s room.

Heart hammering in his chest, John had left the bathroom and walked toward the bedroom. He had been about to knock, when he had heard a moan come from behind the door. An unmistakable moan of pleasure.

Heat had spread inside John at the mere idea the other man could be there, just behind the wooden door, pleasuring himself.

The temptation to see with his eyes the images his mind was conjuring had been too strong to resist.

Being careful not to make any noise, John had opened the door, just that tiny bit he needed to be able to look inside.

His heart had almost jumped out of chest at the sight of Sherlock on the bed completely naked, legs spread, as his strong hands moved up and down his nicely-sized cock and fondled his balls.

John had watched mesmerized with the way Sherlock’s muscles had bulged and relaxed beneath his pale skin as he worked to bring himself to climax.

He had watched, waiting for Sherlock to explode, wanting so badly to see his face contort with pleasure, but after a while he had become aware something was wrong.

Sherlock’s moans were no longer full of pleasure. They sounded pained, full of frustration as he increased the pace of his ministrations on himself, without result. A few strokes later, Sherlock had let go of his angry-red cock and slammed his fist on the mattress.

It had been then that John had decided to act. During their talk, Molly had told him it would be his task to make Sherlock realize he could love him. _He_ had to convince Sherlock he would love him no matter his shortcomings, whatever they could be.

John thought that this potentially very embarrassing and humiliating situation could be a good occasion to show Sherlock he was loved—no matter what.

So he had stepped inside the bedroom, shed his bathrobe, lowered onto the bed and taken Sherlock’s shaft in his mouth.

Sherlock had tried to protest, but John had silenced him and used all his knowledge to give him the fulfilment he needed. 

He hadn’t teased Sherlock, for it was not the moment to show the other man how good his Personal Companion could make him feel. He had just worked to bring him to a quick orgasm, because it was what Sherlock needed.

Now, as he waited for the other man to recover, anxiety crashed over John as he started second guessing his decision. Had he done the right thing? Had he been too bold? Would Sherlock be upset that John had helped him because he had not been able to bring himself off?

“Calm down,” Sherlock said with a slightly slurred voice. “I’m not angry. Come here…” and speaking so he opened his arms, inviting John into his embrace.

John didn’t hesitate. He crawled up the mattress until he was aligned with Sherlock and lowered himself between the waiting arms, shivering with pleasure as their bodies touched, bare skin pressed against bare skin.

Sherlock’s arms surrounded his back as John relaxed against his chest, basking in his scent as he listened to his heartbeat. John felt himself grow sleepy and was about to succumb to slumber when Sherlock spoke.

“Why did you do it?”

Suddenly very awake, John raised his head to look at Sherlock’s troubled eyes.

“Because you needed it. Because I’ve been wanting to do it for a long time. Because I love you and wanted to make you feel good.”

“John…you should find someone else to love. As you have just seen…I’m not even able to give pleasure to myself. How could I ever satisfy you?”

John almost rolled his eyes. “If you allow me to be blunt, Sherlock, that’s an idiocy. I’m ready to bet you were too tired or wound up or worried this evening to achieve orgasm. As for the rest, why don’t you let me decide who and how I want to love?”

“Because you’re very dear to me, John and I don’t want to disappoint you.” _Or lose you_ …it was left unsaid, but he heard it all the same.

“Sherlock, sex isn’t the basis of a loving relationship.”

“That’s not what my experiences taught me,” Sherlock retorted bitterly.

“Those women were idiots, both of them! They had a treasure in their hands and threw it away!” John all but snarled, eyes blazing with anger.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. “You know about them?”

“Molly told me.”

“She shouldn’t have. I don’t want your sympathy or pity,” Sherlock muttered, turning his head away.

John almost growled with frustration. Then he took Sherlock’s face between his hands and kissed him soundly. “This is no sympathy or pity. This is love. I’m trying to make you understand I love you and that sex isn’t important for me.”

“I find it difficult to believe given how you approached me in the shower that first morning or what has just happened here.”

This time John couldn’t contain himself. He rolled his eyes. “I can’t understand how a man as intelligent as yourself can be so dense! I gave you pleasure because I wanted to, because I like to make you happy, but I don’t expect you to do the same to me. I don’t need it.”

“No? I find it hard to believe.”

John struggled to put his thoughts in words. He felt that if he didn’t convince Sherlock now, he would lose his only chance. “I’ve been used for sex for my whole adult life. I’ve been put ‘in service’ since I was eighteen and I have had an almost endless list of men and women using me, using my body to get their pleasure. But none of them, not even those few who bothered to make me come as well, ever embraced me as you’re doing now. To me this embrace is more meaningful, more important than all the orgasms I had or will ever have. I feel your love in your embrace, Sherlock —as I felt it when you protected me, in that pool. To me there is nothing more precious than the memories of the evenings we spend together, watching the telly, playing Cluedo or just reading, each of us engrossed in his own book and yet so aware of the other.” John fell silent, swallowing past the lump in his throat, as he waited for Sherlock’s response.

“You really mean it…” Sherlock whispered after a while, eyes filled with wonder.

“Of course I mean it!” John exclaimed. “Do you really think that after a life of sex without a hint of love or even affection, sex would really matter so much to me?”

Sherlock lowered his eyes. “I didn't imagine you would feel like this. I just saw a strong man, full of life and passion. I presumed you would be like all the people I met in my life, especially after you tried to seduce me in the shower….”

John nodded slowly, “Yes, I can see how my behaviour led you to draw the wrong conclusion, but back then I didn’t know you as well as I know you now.” He smiled before continuing, “Now I know how grumpy you’re in the mornings before you get your cup of tea. How you karate the fridge if you don’t find your breakfast ready. How you like for things to be done just _that_ way. How kind you can be when people comes here asking for your help. How dedicated you are to your job. How much you like to play violin during rainy days. How you like to sleep curled on your left side and how…irritated… you were the day the Mrs. Hudson replaced your ultra-flat pillow without telling you, even if, of course, you never raised your voice with her. How devoted you are to your friends and yes, to your brother too. How the cold, emotionless and caustic front you show to the world is just a facade to protect yourself from being hurt. Tell me, did Irene Adler and Janine Hawkings know all of this? Did they really know _you_ , Sherlock? Or just the image they had of you?”

Sherlock shook his head slowly. “I don’t think they really knew me…although they should have.”

“Maybe they weren’t able…or interested…to see the real you. It doesn’t really matter now. What matters, what I’m trying to make you understand, is that I love you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, and that all I want from you is to be allowed to take care of you, to make you happy…and I don’t care if it will mean we will live in chastity for the rest of our lives as long as you promise me we will fall asleep in each other arms every night,” John concluded, heart hammering again in his chest as he waited for Sherlock’s response to his declaration.

 

**-:-:-:-:-**

 

Sherlock watched as John waited for his answer, his eyes full of love and hope.

He knew in his heart that what John had said weren’t just platitudes to make him feel better and give in, and that his convictions wouldn’t waver at the first difficulty.

For the first time since he had discovered Janine in the prostitutes’ arms, Sherlock felt hope stir in him. Hope that he could find someone who would love him as unconditionally as he had loved Victor, Irene and Janine …and loved John.

“John,” he whispered, cupping the other man’s cheek with his palm. “I do love you.” He watched as John’s eyes widened and his expression filled with joy. “I started loving you very early in our living together, when I saw how good it was spending time with you and coming home to a flat filled with your presence.”

“Then why you didn’t tell me?” John whispered.

“Because I knew you were interested in me in a sexual way—and not just because it was your duty as my Personal Companion. I could feel you were interested in me as a man—and that was the reason I didn’t act on my feelings. I didn’t want to bring a sexual connotation into our relationship because I was afraid it would cause me to lose you as I lost Irene and Janine. I was afraid... My heart had been broken twice and I couldn’t bear the idea of having it broken again. But now...now it’s different. I want to be with you…to go to sleep every night with you in my arms and wake up every morning with you pressed against me, breathing in the scent of your hair and skin.”

John smiled broadly down at him, and Sherlock smiled back, as they stared, happy, into each other’s eyes.

Then John’s gaze darkened and he whispered, a little hesitantly. “May I kiss you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “I like kissing. Not only I like it, but I’m also quite good at it. Even Janine and Irene said so.”

“I don’t want to hear their names ever again,” John growled, before he bent his head forward as Sherlock raised his own to meet him midway.

Their lips met in a kiss that was curious and sweet and tender. A chaste first kiss that left Sherlock wishing for more—which was granted with their second kiss, when John parted his lips, inviting his questioning tongue into his mouth

Sherlock thoroughly explored the hot cavern, memorizing the taste of his love. John responded to him with the same intensity and soon they were devouring each other mouths and moans.

It was then, as Sherlock pulled John even closer to him, that he realized with surprise that he was hard.

The realization stunned him. He had seldom hardened so quickly while kissing and certainly never after having already come.

He flushed crimson in embarrassment as his cock poked against John’s hip. All those talks about not having to have sex and here he was…

John must had sensed his distress, for he pulled away from their kiss. He took Sherlock’s face in his hands and murmured, “There is no need to be embarrassed. I might be ready to live in chastity with you for the rest of our lives, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be upset if you feel like doing it.”

“But I don’t want to make you feel obligated to go along with this, after what was done to you…”

John shook his head with fondness. “I don’t feel obliged to do anything. What I’m going to do is because I want to do it—with you.” He rose to his knees, and Sherlock noticed he was erect too.

“See?” John commented. “I do want you.”

Thus speaking, John stretched across the bed to pick the tube of muscle relaxant he had given Sherlock for his shoulders. Then he slid down Sherlock’s body, kissing the hollow of his neck, nibbling his collarbone, licking and sucking his nipples, leaving a damp path with his lips and tongue until he reached his leaking cock.

Once there John stopped, still on his knees with a hand pressed on the mattress to hold himself steady, as the other behind his back. It took a moment for Sherlock’s dazzled brain to understand John was preparing himself.

Shortly after, John straddled Sherlock’s hips, took his erection in his hand and sat down onto it.

Sherlock cried out when he felt himself being engulfed by John’s body. It felt like being inside a woman, but it seemed tighter and warmer.

“Is this all right?” John whispered, looking down at him.

“Yes…just tell me what I must do…” Sherlock answered.

“There is nothing you _must_ do, Sherlock, but you can move, if you want. If not, then don’t do anything. I’ll take care of both of us.”

Sherlock nodded, relieved, and threw his head back against the pillow as John started moving up and down on him, his body causing a delicious friction on his aroused flesh.

John leant forward and put his hands over Sherlock’s chest to get more leverage as his movements speeded up and his breath grew laboured.

Sherlock watched beneath half closed eyes as John’s face contorted with pleasure. He felt a bit guilty for not doing anything to increase his partner’s enjoyment, but it felt so good to just stay there and be loved, without being pressured to transform the encounter into an erotic performance. Just enjoying the ride, watching John take pleasure in his body, stroking his own cock in time with his up and down movements, until he felt warmth spread in his belly and his balls coil in their sac…Two stroke more and Sherlock came with a load groan as John’s inner muscles contracted around him in a way that was almost painful. He barely felt John’s come splash on his stomach, so lost he was in his pleasure.

When Sherlock recovered his wits, he found John sprawled atop of him, his sweaty face hovering over his own as he looked at him anxiously.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, and his voice sounded slurred to his ears. He raised his hand to caress his lover’s cheek, the movement very slow, for he felt boneless.

“Are you all right?” John asked.

He nodded. “Yes, just worn out. I’ve…never come twice in one encounter,” he blushed deeply. “And you?”

John closed his eyes briefly, as if he was savouring something. Then he opened them again and whispered, “I feel wonderful. Never better. Now I know what ‘making love’ means. Thank you so much for making me feel like this.”

“I did nothing…”

“You let me love you, and that’s what really matters to me. For the first time in my life I had sex because I wanted it... I made love and this is a memory I’ll always cherish,” John said, bringing Sherlock’s hand to his lips and kissing the palm.

“I-I…think that…there could be more memories like this one in the future…” Sherlock murmured, hesitant. “Probably not very often…but there will be.”

John smiled broadly. “Then it means I will have to treasure them—but never as much as I treasure you, Master.”

“Don’t call me Master, John. You know I don’t like it. I don’t like to be reminded that I own you…that you are considered a possession,” Sherlock said with a frown.

“But you do own me, Sherlock. You own my heart and my mind—as I dare to presume I own your heart and mind in return,” John replied.

“Indeed you do.”

“See? You are indeed my Master! The Master of my heart!”

Sherlock chuckled and shook his head ruefully. “It’s a good thing nobody is watching us. We sound so disgustingly sappy…”

“Would you really care if they did?”

“Nope. I’m too happy to care about it.”

“The same goes for me.”

“So I guess we can keep on being sappy as much as we want,” Sherlock concluded, covering a yawn with his hand. Slumber was rapidly creeping over him and for the first time in his life he felt like going to sleep without the desire to stand up and clean himself after sex nor the urge to shake off the sweaty body of his partner and curl away on his side.

He felt good, he felt happy and something inside him was telling him this was only the beginning. It was telling him that maybe, in the arms of his very special Personal Companion, not only would Sherlock discover the real meaning of love, but that perhaps he would also learn to like sex.

Sherlock smiled at the thought, kissed John’s temple and then closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**Epilogue**

 

It was just another morning at Baker Street, with John reading the newspaper and Sherlock stretched on the couch, deep in his Mind Palace, when Mrs. Hudson entered the flat carrying the mail. She put the envelopes on the mantel, all except one that she handed to John.

“This is for you, dear,” she said before leaving the flat.

John was surprised; he had never received a letter before. He looked the thick envelope with curiosity and noticed the Royal Harem emblem on it. He turned it around in his hands, wondering what it could be, until Sherlock commented, “It won’t open by itself.”

John carefully tore the envelope open and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He spread it and read:

 

_Dear Mr. Watson M.D.,_

_After reviewing the petition submitted by Mr. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, this Committee has decided to grant his request and to relieve you from any obligation as Mr. Holmes’s Personal Companion._

_The Committee has also decided to rescind your contract with the Royal Harem._

_From now on you will receive a pension congruous with the years you spent at the Royal Harem’s  service. Also, should decide in this sense, lodgings will be made available for your use at the Residence._

_Included in this envelope there are your new ID, NHS documents and the details of your bank account._

_Please don’t hesitate to contact us should you need further clarifications._

_Kindest regards,_

_Jason Ashton_

 

John raised his stunned eyes and met Sherlock’s, who was now standing near the couch.

“This means...this means...” John’s voice broke with emotion.

“That you’re finally a free man, John.”

“Because you petitioned for my freedom?”

“Yes. Mycroft helped too. He made clear a refusal wouldn’t be appreciated,” Sherlock grinned.

“But it wasn’t necessary. You never treated me as a Personal Companion. You never obliged me to do anything. You always treated me as an equal, as friend and as a lover.”

“Yes, but I couldn’t forget the fact I was legally your owner. I didn’t like it,” Sherlock said seriously, before his mouth bent in another grin, “Besides, I want you to be able to come with me when I go abroad on cases.”

John grinned too as he stood up. He was deeply grateful for what Sherlock had done, but understood the other man did want to downplay the magnitude of his gift. So he went along with playful tone and added, “I see, you would be lost without your trusted sidekick.”

“Indeed.”

They there now face to face and John didn’t hesitate in hugging Sherlock, pulling him as close as possible.

“Thank you,” he breathed against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“It was my pleasure.”

John raised his head and took Sherlock’s lip in a kiss, which started sweet and chaste, but turned passionate as John opened his mouth to the seeking tongue probing against his lips.

John loved kissing with Sherlock, it always managed to touch an emotional cord inside him. Most of the times they kissed just for the pleasure of doing it, without any need for more, but today John felt Sherlock harden against his thigh and he welcomed it. He couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate his freedom than to make love as a free man.

“Do you want to go on?” he whispered against Sherlock’s lips, as he gently ground his body against his lover.

“Yes...”Sherlock breathed.

They walked hand in hand toward their bedroom, stealing kisses along the way. Once inside they quickly shed their clothes and moved to the bed. Sherlock reclined, taking his horns out of the way and John knelt by his side, as the other man’s hand rose slowly to caress his chest.

John pushed it away and murmured, “Let me take care of you.”

Sherlock’s lips curved in a lopsided grin, “It depends on what you plan to do to me…”

“Nothing you won’t like, I promise,” John teased, because they both knew he would never do anything to upset Sherlock.

He bent down and kissed the tip of Sherlock’s nose, but not the mouth he had hopefully offered.

“Not yet, not yet…” he teased and Sherlock let out a groan of playful frustration, which turned into a moan when John lowered his head and bit him in the spot where his neck joined his shoulder.

Sherlock’s cock swelled even more and hardened under John’s hungry stare and he too moaned with pleasure, as his own shaft twitched in response.

Then John continued his assault on his lover’s body. First his neck, which was thoroughly kissed and licked, as he savored the delicious saltiness of his skin. Then his chest, which was caressed, kissed and nipped, his chest hair smoothed and combed. John pushed away Sherlock’s hand while  he dedicated himself to the other man’s hard, small nipples because Sherlock had tried to return the sensation he loved so much.

John stopped his ministrations and frowned. “I told you to let me take care of you...” he admonished, although he was ready to bend to his lover’s wishes if Sherlock really wanted it.

Sherlock groaned aloud but obeyed, spreading his arms wide on the mattress, his fists now clenching the sheet. John rewarded him by tracing large, lazy circles with his fingertips over the silky skin of his pectorals, which became narrower and narrower as they approached his nipples that were then lightly pinched. Sherlock moaned aloud and his back arched as he offered himself to John.

“Again…” Sherlock breathed and he was more than happy to repeat his actions, aroused by how his lover was allowing himself to be at his complete mercy. Sherlock’s lean, hot body was covered by a thin sheen of sweat, his muscles languidly flexing and relaxing in response to his touches. His head was thrown back against the pillow; his mouth was open in pleasure. He was gorgeous beyond description and John had to struggle with himself.

He took several deep breaths to calm his excitement, and then he resumed his activities. He slid his palms along Sherlock’s sides, following the curve of his ribs, down to his abdomen and to his lower belly, where his lover’s hair was thicker. John’s fingers combed the soft dark curls, then he tugged at them, that little bit of pain he knew Sherlock would find pleasurable. His lover’s hips arched up as his still neglected cock became even harder, a clear drop of fluid appearing on its tip, and rolling down the shaft. John caught it with his index finger and brought it between his lips, wantonly tasting it, as if he was savouring expensive champagne.

The look on John’s face was Sherlock’s breaking point. Before John could react, Sherlock surged up, embraced him and then they both fell back on the mattress. Sherlock rolled on top of John, and began to rock his hips, sliding his hard erection along his lover’s.

Sherlock took his lips in a long, passionate, soul searching kiss. “You taste so good…” he said freeing John’s mouth and burying his nose into his neck, “You smell so good… So warm… so mine…”

“Yes Sherlock, yours, always yours, forever yours…” John answered, as he caressed his lover’s furred back and tail, “You know that right?”

“Yes...That’s why I wanted you free…”

Sherlock kissed John again, then proceed to touch and caress him everywhere, his hands gentle yet possessive. He was much more confident of his skills as a lover now. He could see with his own eyes how much his touch excited John.

They hadn’t engaged in penetrative sex since that first time-- as Sherlock didn’t truly liked it and John didn’t miss an act that for so many years had been the symbol of his submission to other’s people wants—but they had found many ways to please each other, with their hands, mouths and bodies.

Their passion mounted, and Sherlock slid off John. “On your side,” he commanded with a breathy voice as he reached out to take the lube from the bedside table.  John didn’t lose a moment obeying. He rolled on his left side, and a moment later Sherlock spooned against him, sliding his now slick hard shaft between John tightly pressed legs.

John pushed back and moaned, enjoying the feeling of his lover’s cock nudging against his balls. Then a long-fingered, slick hand wrapped around his erection and started stroking him in time with Sherlock’s thrusts. John threw back his head, baring his neck to his lover’s lips. Balancing himself with an arm wrapped around the other man’s lower back he began to move in counterpoint to Sherlock’s thrusting.

It didn’t take long for them to reach the peak of their pleasure. Sherlock stiffened and came with a long, low groan, spurting hot liquid against John’s balls. John followed a few seconds later, after one more thrust in Sherlock’s fist had him grunting and tense, as hot pleasure rushed from his cock through his body. They slumped against each other, happy, satisfied and ready to fall asleep.

Sherlock’s phone chirped with a text alert.

Groaning, he wriggled down the bed on his stomach as John admired his furry buttocks and twitching tail. Sherlock retrieved the phone from his dressing gown pocket and squinted at the screen.

His ears perked up, all signs of slumber disappearing from his now taut body. He jumped up off the bed as he fired off a text.

Sherlock then turned to look at John, who was still lazing on the mattress and exclaimed, “What are you doing still there?! Come on, there is a dead man in St. James Park, hanged by his feet!”

He disappeared to the bathroom as John shook his head in fond amusement. Then he stood up and joined his lover under the water for a quick shower.

Ten minutes later, they were running down the stairs, grinning excitedly at the prospect of a new case.

It was indeed just another morning in 221B Baker Street.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this completes the story. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Thanks so much for all the kudos and MERRY CHRISTMAS!


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